by Chris Tharp
“Chinese herbal medicine shop,” said Miss Yi. “We stop for thirty minutes. Come in and buy!”
Feeling no need to purchase any ground-up bear claw, aromatic tree bark, or deer penis, I stood in the gravel parking area with Sam and smoked in the heat. Steve sat on a nearby stump in the shade, glowering.
After the herb store, we wound further up the mountain and finally made it to the lake, or at least the parking area below, which was crammed full of what looked like at least one hundred other tour buses. From there, most all visitors elected to take the cable car up the five kilometers to the lake. These were small, covered two-seaters—more like chair lifts, really—strung up the face of the mountain like lanterns.
“Let’s hike up,” Sam said. “Isn’t that why we came here? We can take the gondolas down.”
When we broke the news to Miss Yi, I could almost hear here synapses sizzling
“No cable car? But it is very far!”
“It’s okay,” I said. “We really want to walk.”
“Why?”
The three of us had thrown on our hiking boots before leaving. We brought daypacks and sun hats. We had plenty of water and were ready to go. When I looked at my bus mates, I saw that most of the women wore skirts and high heel shoes, while the men sported dress slacks and cheap oxfords. Perhaps the cable car was the best choice for them.
We waved goodbye to our Chinese comrades and climbed up a trail made of concrete and stone. This paved path followed a stream tumbling down the rocks; we passed a series of impressive cascades. We saw no one during our sweaty ascent, which took a little more than an hour. When we finally cleared the hump, we arrived at a vista overlooking the lake. I was taken aback by its beauty. The water was deep blue and looked pristine. The lake was surrounded by rocky, ice-capped peaks, with Bogeda Feng ruling over all at the far end. It was gorgeous, just as impressive as the photos.
From our vantage point, we could see a set of stairs heading down from the cable car terminus to the shore. Tourists poured over the stairs like insects, crowding and then queuing up at a large dock. From there, they donned orange life vests and boarded sightseeing boats that took them out onto the water. Every time a boat left the dock, the skipper blasted the mighty horn for several seconds, which echoed around the lake, shattering any tranquility that may have existed. This occurred with disturbing regularity—every two or three minutes, it seemed.
Avoiding the mob of boat boarders, we scurried down to the lake’s edge and hiked around the shore. A wooden walkway was constructed for part of the way, anchored into the sheer cliff face with large bolts and steel cables. As we made our way around, we saw few other walkers. The air was sweet and remarkably free of the dust that perpetually lingered near the sands of the desert lowlands. It was a perfect day to ramble in the mountains, and I was very glad we had come.
As we hiked along the shore, we came upon steps that led up to a “temple”—more of a tourist show than an actual, working house of meditation. The boats disembarked here, as well, so we joined a steady line of bodies jostling and climbing the stairs to the site. Colorful flowers bloomed in profusion among the shrubbery that lined both sides of the stairs. As we came to the entrance, we were stopped by a couple of gatekeepers. They wanted a fourteen-yuan entrance fee. This was only about $2, but I’d been to so many temples in Asia that the last thing I was going to do was to pay for one so obviously set up for tourists. My friends agreed, and we turned around. As we began our descent to the lake, Sam stopped and examined a couple of the mountain flowers.
“Check it out.”
They were fake, hundreds of paper cutouts that were literally pinned to the bushes.
“So beautiful!” said Steve, rolling his eyes.
If the flowers weren’t bad enough, the temple did more to disrupt the tranquility of the surroundings than enhance it. The stairs led to a platform up top, upon which sat a giant bell. This is typical of many Buddhist temples, but in my experience, only the monks are allowed to ring the bell, which is often struck with a heavy log mounted on a kind of pendulum. This particular bell was open to the general public—which that day meant several thousand tourists—each one making it their personal quest to climb up to the temple, pay two bucks to a fake monk in a costume robe, and ring the damned bell:
DONGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!
Wait twenty seconds:
DONGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!
Wait twenty seconds:
DONGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!
Combine this with the constant blare of boat horns, and you had a positively resounding din.
Ah, nature.
“This is really getting on my tits,” I said.
We managed to escape the evil temple bell by hiking further in, by climbing over one ridge and then another, letting the land itself act as a sound barrier. As expected, it took no time to lose all other tourists, and we were now on our own, save the herds of sheep and Kazakh shepherds who inhabited the lakeshore in their yurts. It finally felt like Central Asia.
My objective was to have a swim, and we found a spot, though it was uncomfortably close to a small herd of cows raised and tended by the Kazakhs. You could see the brown haze of some cow shit particles in the water near the shore, but we moved down to what seemed like more acceptable, hygienic environs. The lake looked clean, though I knew that appearances meant little: with these amounts of people and livestock, the water was probably dirtier than I thought. But we settled on a spot and I stripped down to my swim trunks and jumped in, relishing the bracingly cold lake water.
“You guys coming in?” I asked.
“No, man,” said Sam. “It’s all you.”
I swam out from shore, to where the water was well over my head. A sightseeing boat approached, stuffed with camera-toting passengers. I waved to them as they passed by; they looked at me like I was on fire, and then started greedily snapping pictures. I got the impression that to them, swimming in the lake was the height of insanity.
I got out of the water and dried off and, after about an hour’s hike back, we found ourselves at the cable car station. The line was much longer than anticipated, and after an interminable wait, Sam and I slid into the contraption, and the attendant locked us in. Steve was just behind us, sharing his car with a teenage Chinese girl who appeared horrified to be riding with a lanky, bespectacled foreigner.
The drop down the mountain took about twenty minutes. The cars descended quickly, and several times I had to take my eyes off of the ground to avoid spins of vertigo. Heights have never been my favorite.
I hate cable cars. If we hadn’t been running late, there’s no way I would have agreed to ride in the loathsome thing. Cable cars are awful because they clutter up the natural scenery, but worse than that, they ruin mountains by transporting up herds of people who are too lazy to do the actual work it takes to get to there on their own. And these particular cable cars gave me even another reason to despise them: they had speakers attached to the cable poles, blasting atrocious Chinese pop music along with loud advertisements. On the side of a mountain. I suppose the sound of wind, flowing water and birds was just too much to expect. Such natural noises just might have taken our minds off of the most important thing of all: shopping.
And to think that some people still refer to China as a “communist” country.
We were very late, barely making our bus and facing a very annoyed, tsk-tsking Miss Yi as we slunk back on board. As we jerked out of the expansive parking lot and sped back toward Ürümqi, I nodded off. All of that activity—the hiking and swimming and cable car and endurance, coupled with an early start to the day—had assed me out. But my sweet bus slumber was soon interrupted by the perky Miss Yi, who once again plugged in the karaoke mike and started a new shuck and jive.
Sam looked at me with an expression of unfathomable annoyance. Steve pulled down his hat and tried to shut her out. I fantasized twenty different methods of murder. But nothing we did could stop her run-on spiel. She went on for another thirty minute
s. At this point I was worn down, and almost admired her commitment and energy. She just didn’t stop. She was like an animatronic character on a Disneyland ride, and quit the pitch only once we’d reached the outskirts of the city, where we stopped at the crown jewel of all Chinese tourist traps: the dreaded jade factory.
There was more shopping to be done
“Fuck this,” Sam said, grabbing his pack. “Let’s get a taxi.”
We fled the bus and easily found a cab to take us back into the city, which took about twenty more minutes and cost just a little more than one entry fee to the Tian Chi fake mountain temple. We were back in our room before the bus even left the jade factory, with vivid memories of “Heaven Lake” dancing in our rattled, sunburned heads.
The Olympic Spirit Comes to Kashgar
“The security forces are here,” whispered Hamish. “They’re on every street corner. You can fuckin’ well guarantae it. You just have to know how to spot them.”
As his name suggests, Hamish was Scottish, and spoke with a heavy brogue. He sipped from a can of Coke while he fiddled with a small, expensive-looking video camera.
“I thought this place would be in lockdown,” I said, “after what happened.”
“Not with the Olympics on, mate. The whole world is watching China right now, and you can bet they’ll put their best face forward. Any real reprisals will have to wait until the glare of the spotlight has been removed. Once everyone’s packed up the cameras and gone home—that’s when the heads will roll. But I’m not gaein’ anywhere. I’m stayin’ right here.” He gave his own camera a little shake, for effect.
We were in the town of Kashgar, sitting at the courtyard café of the Chini Bagh Hotel—the gathering place for the smattering of Kashgar’s tourists and expats—as well as our headquarters for the next few days. The massive compound occupied the grounds of the former British Consulate and was one of the few places in town that housed foreign travelers.
The Western media always seem to describe the country’s Uyghur population as “restive”—a word utilized so often that it’s become the default adjective when discussing the region. Despite its overuse, it’s not an inaccurate description, since the Uyghurs clearly bristle at the heavy-handed Chinese rule. In fact, just two days before our arrival there was an attack on Chinese security forces. Sixteen cops were killed by two Uyghur radicals in a combined grenade/knife assault. The assailants were apprehended at the scene and dragged away, where they disappeared into the bowels of the state security apparatus and surely faced a nasty, brutal fate.
We were about to leave Ürümqi on the day of the attack, but the trains were held up due to “sandstorms.” Two days later, we were allowed to move on, and after a twenty-four-hour trip, we now found ourselves in this ancient Silk Road city. I was sure the place would be under martial law, but things were strangely normal, at least on the surface. As the Scottish journalist Hamish said, the Chinese needed to keep up appearances. It was the opening day of the 2008 Olympics, and they weren’t about to let it be marred by a couple of Uyghur extremists.
Kashgar has been a vital city for centuries, serving as the seat of the Uyghur Empire and the meeting place of both the northern and southern silk routes that skirted the Taklimakan Desert. Stepping into Kashgar is to be, at times, transported to an exotic past. The film The Kite Runner was shot in the city’s old town, a picturesque stand-in for pre-Taliban Kabul, with its rabbit warren of alleys and ancient buildings. It’s a very traditional place, where the men wear skullcaps and the women cover their heads with beautiful, colorful scarves. While moderate when compared to some other Muslims, the people in and around Kashgar are still quite observant. The city’s main mosque—a looming, yellow structure—is mobbed with men during Friday prayers. Donkeys and carts are the chief mode of transportation. The houses are mostly made of mud and supported by wooden beams. Everywhere are locals selling melons and freshly made bread, known as naang. Bread is not just important in Uyghur culture: it is sacred. To step or sit on bread crumbs is a cultural taboo, a kind of blasphemy. Steve joked about insolent, rebellious Uyghur teens, hanging out on street corners, smoking cigarettes, and crushing bits of bread under their derrieres. We imagined some them picking up guitars and forming a punk band called “The Crumb Sitters.”
That afternoon we explored the town’s labyrinthine streets, walking past the many haberdasheries and restaurants serving up steaming bowls of langman, their staple noodle dish. Wafting smoke from grilled mutton was a constant and made our mouths gush: we eventually gave into temptation and took a few savory skewers down. The streets were alive with people—buying, selling, walking, working, or just hanging out. As we ambled through the shaded alleys, we were followed by throngs of children dressed in brightly colored clothing. Some of them—both boys and girls—had shaved heads, a lice-prevention measure. These kids begged not for money, but for photographs. They were fascinated by our digital cameras, and screeched and squealed as they crowded around the screen to get a look at the photos they posed for. They wanted us to take photo after photo. They couldn’t get enough—like the dog who never wants to end his game of fetch. At one point, we had to literally try to outrun the kids, who, when we stopped, grabbed our arms and shirttails and hung on with all they had.
That night the three of us went back to the one restaurant attached to the compound—John’s Travelers’ Cafe— where we drank bottles of watery beer, nibbled on oily piles of stir-fried vegetables, pork, and beef, and took in the full spectacle of the Olympic Opening Ceremony with the rest of the Kashgar’s truly international crowd. About twenty of us sat in the cafe’s wobbly plastic blue chairs, cheering each other’s countries as the teams paraded across the small television screen set up in front. When the camera zoomed in on the dopy visage of George W. Bush, the café erupted in a chorus of boos, most virulently trumpeted forth by our trio of liberal Americans. I ended up sitting with a group of English guys who, after enough beers, began hurling abuse at everyone both on the screen and in the café. I like this idea of affectionate insults and, as a result, often find Brits good company.
The ceremony lasted a good three hours, with coverage and previews afterwards. We continued to make merry. We were eventually joined by Chris and Ian. Chris was an Aussie who was working as a travel guide for rich, middle-aged tourists along the Trans-Siberian Railway. He was enjoying his downtime by doing a little touring himself. Ian was from Tennessee and taught English in China. He claimed to be wanted by the IRS for eighty thousand dollars in unpaid taxes.
“Hell, I might live and die right here in China,” he said between sips. “I can never go home again.”
When the staff tired of us and John’s eventually closed, we ended up in the courtyard of one of the compound’s grungier buildings, which also happened to be the permanent home of a bunch of guys from neighboring Pakistan, Afghanistan, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan. We non-Muslims had been drinking for hours and were good and sauced. The café may have kicked us out, but the party’s heart was still beating. At one point someone handed me a guitar and I drunkenly serenaded all of Kashgar with howling renditions of rock standards. Nirvana figured in prominently. Some of the Muslim guys came down and joined us, and before I knew it I was arm in arm with a huge bearded Afghani, pledging international love, brotherhood, and world peace.
Up and Down the Karakorum Highway
I woke up to banging.
“Yo! Time to get up!”
Someone was pounding on the door. I jerked up, shook myself awake, and ran my hands through my hair.
“It’s time, boys!” It was Steve’s voice. He knocked some more. “Wakey wakey!”
Sam put a pillow over his head and groaned in agony.
“Yeah, yeah… we’ll be right there,” I shot back.
Sam was a wreck, passed out on his bed without pants, but still wearing his boxers and white tennis shoes. He had raged through the night with a handful of other travelers and was now gripped by a hangover of Nagasakian pro
portions. I’d taken the evening off and was glad for it; I’d enjoyed a nice, sober sleep, and so had Steve, who also had his own room and was always the earliest riser. He continued his knocking.
“Well hurry up. I’ll be down at the café getting some breakfast.”
“Sure thing.”
I kicked Sam on the soles of his Nikes and ripped the pillow from his head.
“Wake up, asshole. And for the love of God, put some pants on.”
“Urnnnngggg… huh?”
I picked up his jeans from the floor and fired them his way. They landed on his face, which helped to rouse him. In ten minutes, he had them on and the both of us were seated in the café, next to Steve, staring at the menu. Steve sipped coffee, nibbled toast, and worked on a crossword. Sam looked brain-dead and was likely seeing in duplicate, but he managed to order some eggs, and this was a good thing. We needed our sustenance, because after breakfast we were heading up the highest highway in the world.
Our driver’s name was Bao. He was a compulsively laughing Chinese man whose rank breath was an affront to all things living: it smelled like a cocktail of road kill, cigarettes, and dog shit. To make matters worse, he drove like a thrill-junkie high on bath salts. Like so many Chinese drivers, he piloted his vehicle with a surging insanity, careening down the road as if his very manhood was at stake. Bao drove as fast as possible at every moment, laying on ten-second horn blasts to warn any other motorists, pedestrians, cyclists, dogs, cats, goats, or donkeys in the vicinity that he was pushing through. He passed ore-laden dump trucks on blind curves with thousand-foot drop-offs without blinking. He screamed over mountain passes slick with mist and condensation. It seemed he had a death wish; more than once, I had flashes of twisted metal, mutilated flesh, and shattered bones. Was this all worth it? Did I really want to die on the road in one of the most remote corners of Asia?
